


Suburban Mating Call: A Thanksgiving in the Life

by Lbilover



Series: Suburban Mating Call Series [6]
Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Humor, M/M, Romantic Comedy, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-05 19:39:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12800934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lbilover/pseuds/Lbilover
Summary: Sean and Elijah celebrate Thanksgiving with Sean's parents and brother.





	Suburban Mating Call: A Thanksgiving in the Life

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written as a request several years ago. My requester asked for a Thanksgiving dinner SMC fic featuring Sean’s family and Elijah’s bare feet.

Has any human ever been presented with such a terrible dilemma? Sean wonders. 

If he looks straight ahead through the windshield, terror fills his soul because it’s Thanksgiving and the traffic on the 405 is even worse than usual and Elijah is driving and he has no regard for holiday traffic. Everyone else might be crawling along, but not Sean and Elijah; like the Knight Bus from Harry Potter, the Lexus squeezes through impossibly small spaces at speeds that also seem impossible. It doesn’t help that Elijah’s small hand rests firmly on Sean’s left thigh all the while, or that ‘Nails on a Blackboard’ (it’s Elijah’s turn to choose the music) blasts from the car stereo, complemented by the angry horn blasts from their fellow travelers that accompany their wild, weaving progress.

But if Sean looks behind him, terror also fills his soul because there in plain view is IT: the Thing that sits on the back seat. IT is alive; of that fact Sean has become absolutely convinced. He’s been trying very hard not to think about IT, but he can picture IT so clearly in his mind and what his mind is showing him, in brilliant Technicolor slow motion, is a slimy neon-green, acid-dripping tentacle reaching out across the gap between the front and rear seats. Any second now it will touch the back of his neck, ooze slimily around his throat and tighten…

“Sean?”

“What?” Sean nearly shouts as he jumps in his seat.

“Sweetie, what’s wrong?” Elijah asks, looking at him in concern. “You’re so tense.” His hand soothes along Sean’s rigid thigh, but given that he is doing this as he stomps on the accelerator pedal and shoots the Lexus into an until-that-moment non-existent space between two monster SUVs, it’s impossible for Sean to feel soothed. Instead, he sends up another fervent prayer to St. Fiacre, the patron saint of drivers. 

Sean had discovered this particular patron saint quite by chance a few days earlier, stumbling across a web site that listed Catholic saints in a tidy, convenient ‘alphabetical by topic’ format that appealed to the accountant in Sean’s soul. Even though he’d honestly and truly thought he was past the point of needing to pray for divine intervention when he drove with Elijah, he’d clicked on ‘D’ anyway, and looked under the heading ‘Drivers’. There he’d found the blessed St. Fiacre (who also, bizarrely, is the patron saint of gardeners and those with venereal disease, a combination that resulted in Sean having a very disturbing dream the next night involving several suggestively shaped gourds, the kind covered in unhealthy looking lumps and bumps that screamed ‘flesh-eating disease’), and not a moment too soon, either. 

Whether his fervent prayers are actually doing any good, he can’t say for sure, but he and Elijah are still alive, which surely is a miracle, considering how his boyfriend is driving. Of course Elijah is an angel, but given Sean’s rampant fears that God will change His mind about lending this particular angel to Sean and demand him back, he doesn’t feel that he can count solely on Elijah’s angelic perfection (except in the matter of driving cars, that is) to save them this time. 

“Sean?” Elijah asks again. “Your lips are moving but nothing’s coming out. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Sean reassures him. “But Elijah,” he continues, about to remind him of the danger of staring at someone’s lips instead of the road in front of them, but he knows it will be futile. Elijah will just tell him to relax, that everything is going to be perfectly fine, and while it’s true that thus far everything has turned out perfectly fine, Sean can’t help but feel that their luck is eventually going to run out.

All of a sudden, Elijah lets out a loud ‘Fuck!’, slams on the brakes, jerks the car to the right (narrowly avoiding a tour bus) and stomps on the accelerator pedal, shooting the Lexus into yet another until-that-moment non-existent space. All around them horns blare in outrage and out of the corner of his eye Sean can see someone giving them the finger. 

“Geez, the way people drive is totally fucking ridiculous!” Elijah comments, and sadly shakes his head. “What were you saying?”

“Nothing,” Sean replies, resigned, and sneaks a glance behind him. But IT is still there in full view, wobbling wildly and obscenely now, and his skin crawls at the sight. He decides that, on sum, he prefers the terror in front of him to that behind.

“You’re not still worrying about having Thanksgiving at your parents’, are you?” Elijah says, caressing his knee and then giving it a little squeeze. “Sweetie, I wish you would relax. Everything’s going to be perfectly fine.”

“You’re only saying that because you’ve never spent Thanksgiving with my parents and brother,” protests Sean, who has spent far, far too many Thanksgivings with his parents and brother, and had rather hoped this year to spend it with Elijah’s parents instead. (The idea of having a joint Thanksgiving with both his and Elijah’s parents had briefly flitted into his brain, and then exeunted stage left, pursued by maniacal laughter and men in white lab coats.) 

But unfortunately for Sean and his budding hopes, the Refuse King and his Queen are currently somewhere in the Caribbean, cruising on their yacht, the Lucky Landfill. They had actually invited Elijah and Sean to accompany them, but Sean suffers from seasickness so profound that too many waves in the bathtub can make him nauseous. Besides, while it might sound romantic to share a cozy little cabin with the love of his life, the presence of Elijah’s father, possibly next door, would definitely put a damper on romance. He’s still not quite sure exactly what the Refuse King thinks of his son’s boyfriend, and a watery, shark-infested landfill is just a heave-ho from the gangplank away.

“What’s wrong with your parents and brother?” Elijah says reasonably. “They’re great people. Well, they don’t appreciate you the way they should, of course, but then who does? Honestly, Sean, I’m beginning to think I’m the only person who realizes exactly how wonderful you are.” He sadly shakes his head again, but then brightens. “But I guess that’s a good thing, because I sure as fuck wouldn’t like it if anyone else found you as wonderful as I do.” 

A sound remarkably like a growl issues from the angelically beautiful (not to mention insanely hot) being sitting beside Sean. It’s the sort of growl that rumbles deep in the throat of a very pissed off saber-tooth tigress when someone ventures too near to her cub.

Sean melts. He can’t help it. Instead of being appalled by this feral side to Elijah’s angelic nature, he finds it so incredibly arousing that he has to shift around in his seat to relieve a sudden tightness in the crotch of his jeans.

“I don’t think you need to worry about that, Elijah,” Sean says with perfect truth, for the list headed ‘People Who Think Sean Astin Is Totally Wonderful’ could probably be contained on the head of a pin as it consists of only one person. The list headed ‘People Who Think Elijah Wood Is Totally Wonderful’, on the other hand, (leaving aside pissed off holiday drivers and the members of Sean’s wine club) could not only not be contained on the head of a pin, but the reams and reams of paper it covers could probably crush Arnold Schwarzenegger under its weight (and a very fitting end for the Governator it would be, too, in Sean’s opinion).

Sean is tempted at this juncture to introduce his old boyfriend Charles into the conversation, for even during that blissful (if brief) honeymoon period when they first got together, Charles had made it plain that he considered his new boyfriend flawed material that he might be able to whip into shape, given enough time. 

Bringing up the late, unlamented Charles is a surefire means of inflaming the tigress in Elijah to even greater heights, and under other circumstances, Sean probably would do it, but he isn’t sure St. Fiacre’s divine intervention extends to drivers having wild monkey (or saber-tooth tigress) sex with their partners as they careen down the 405 through bumper to bumper traffic. And if they pull over, Sean has a sneaking suspicion that the innumerable fellow travelers Elijah has cut off will be pulling over, too, and not because they want to share wild monkey (or saber-tooth tigress) sex with them. Of course, he could simply heave IT out the car window and let IT fend off any irate drivers (or send them running, emitting high-pitched screams, back to their cars), but Elijah has an unfortunate attachment to the Thing on the back seat.

In any event, before Sean can translate any of his nebulous ideas into action, Elijah, frowning ferociously, stomps on the gas pedal again and the Lexus streaks, a Truffle Mica (the most tasteful of Lexus’s available color options for the GS 360) painted bolt of lightning, across three lanes of traffic and onto the crowded exit ramp. Elijah has no patience for waiting in lines, so he simply pulls onto the right shoulder and floors it. Sean closes his eyes, quadruples the pace of his petitions to St. Fiacre, and tries to convince himself that the cacophony of blaring horns is actually a good thing, as it drowns out ‘Nails on a Blackboard’ singing ‘I’d Give You My Heart, Babe (But It’s All Gunked Up with Cholesterol)’. 

By the time Sean is able to force his eyelids open again, his heart has retreated back down to where it belongs (instead of pushing uncomfortably on his resentful uvula), and he can accept that he really is still alive (thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou, St. Fiacre), they are pulling into the driveway of his parents’ house. 

“We made great time,” Elijah says cheerfully, shutting off the car and (blessedly) ‘Nails on a Blackboard’. “I don’t know why people bitch and moan about holiday traffic so much.”

Speechless, Sean sags limply against the back of his seat, and wriggles his right foot, which has gone numb from being pressed so hard into the imaginary brake pedal on his side.

“Ready, Seanie?” Elijah reaches for the door handle, and then stops. “But first…” He leans across the console and kisses Sean, until the drive, the music, St. Fiacre, and even IT, disappear and the Mindless Lust Sector of Sean’s brain takes control. 

Just when things are getting really interesting, however, and Elijah’s tongue is playing ‘tickle me Elmo’ with Sean’s uvula (which is feeling much, much happier now), Elijah pulls back and sighs. “Your mom’s watching us out the window,” he says. 

“She is? Oh dear god.” Mindless Lust bolts while Sean’s entire body burns with embarrassment. Nothing is guaranteed to send Mindless Lust scampering for cover quicker than the thought that his mother is watching him and Elijah kiss. Well, it would probably hit warp speed if she saw them doing something more than kissing, but that thought is simply too horrifying even for his rampageous imagination to contemplate.

“It’s okay, sweetie.” Elijah gives him a bracing hug. “She’s gone now. But geez, from the look on her face, you’d think she never saw two guys making out before.” Then he frowns. “At least… I hope she’s never seen you make out with someone before, especially that fucker Charles. Has she?” he adds jealously.

This is one of those occasions when Sean wishes his pesky Innate Truthfulness would lie low, but no such luck.What harm can one eensy-weensy, teeny-tiny, small white lie do? he asks it, but it stares stonily at him, having still not forgiven him for the innumerable curling untruths he had told Elijah on their first date.

“Not Charles, no, but,” Sean glowers at Innate Truthfulness, “when I was in the 9th grade, my mom caught me and Tommy McGillicuddy kissing in my bedroom. She wouldn’t have, except our braces got stuck together. Tommy never forgave me for getting him in trouble with his parents, even if I didn’t mean to.” He cringes at the memory, the first in a long line of romantic disasters. Tommy had been his first real life crush, and time had not diminished the pain or humiliation of that disastrous kiss and its even more disastrous aftermath.

“Oh Seanie, my poor sweet baby, how awful for you,” Elijah coos, and hugs him again. “I wish that had been me instead. I wouldn’t have minded my braces being stuck to yours.”

Sean nestles into Elijah’s embrace, not even caring if his mother has returned to the window. Elijah wouldn’t have minded his braces being stuck to mine, he thinks deliriously, almost swooning. My angel.

“If I’d had braces, that is,” Elijah amends, obviously subject to his own Innate Truthfulness tyrant. “Not that you can’t tell right away that I didn’t, seeing that I have this weird gap between my two front teeth. Of course, it’s not too late to get it fixed-“

“WHAT?” Sean pulls back in alarm. “Fix the gap between your two front teeth?” he repeats dumbly, as if Elijah has proposed drawing a mustache on the Mona Lisa. He takes Elijah by the shoulders and fixes him with such a stern look that Innate Truthfulness applauds. “Don’t you let any orthodontists within a hundred miles of that gap, Elijah,” he says, his heart palpitating as he pictures a sinister, metal-wielding figure in a green surgical mask advancing on his boyfriend with intent to orthodont. “It’s perfect, just like the rest of you.” 

(And oh my god, the things Elijah can do with that gap… His body breaks out in a light sweat as a parade of incendiary images marches through his fevered brain.)

“Do you really like it?” Elijah asks doubtfully, poking at it with his oh-so-very pink tongue-tip.

“Yes,” Sean replies with the sort of fervor that an acolyte would use in the presence of an angelic being—which is the case (more or less).

The angelic being beams, putting the incendiary tooth gap on full display. “Oh Seanie, what would I do without you?” he says. “Well, I see your mom looking out the window again. I guess she’s wondering what’s taking us so long, so we better get going.” He sounds distinctly regretful. Then his stomach rumbles and he giggles. “My stomach agrees. Fuck, I’m starving, but I wanted to leave extra room for your mom’s Thanksgiving dinner.”

Sean is about to warn Elijah of the horrors that await, but then he remembers the mini-gherkins of a previous visit, and Elijah’s evident enjoyment as he crunched the repulsively slimy little pickles, not to mention the presence of IT, looming large once again, and he decides that it’s probably a lost cause.

They both get out of the Lexus, Elijah with his usual buoyancy, Sean with his usual sense of Impending Doom. Elijah slings his messenger bag over his shoulder and opens the rear door, humming a cheerful and (much as Sean wishes it weren’t so) very off-key rendition of the ‘Nails on a Blackboard’ song that had just been playing. 

“Can you get the door, sweetie?” he asks, straightening with IT held between his hands. 

Sean obligingly shuts the car door, keeping one wary eye on IT as he does, lest IT make a sudden move toward him. “Elijah, do you really think…” he begins doubtfully, but Elijah interrupts him. “Now Sean, we’ve been over this a hundred times. Trust me, your mom is gonna love it.”

And much as Sean wishes he could argue the point, Elijah is right. His mother is going to love IT.

“Fuck, this is going to be fun,” Elijah continues with unimpaired good humor, bouncing on the balls of his black Chucks as they head up the red begonia-lined cement path to the front door of Sean’s parents’ house. But his voice trails off and he comes to an abrupt halt, a look of stunned incredulity on his face as he takes in the Welcome Pig, festively decked out in a Pilgrim costume, its habitual leer accentuated by the rakishly tilted Puritan hat.

“Oh. My. Fucking. God,” he says in patent disbelief. Then he looks at Sean and adds very seriously, “Seanie, if the Indians had seen that waiting to meet them at the first Thanksgiving, they’d have run screaming back into the forest.”

Elijah’s comment makes Sean so happy that he can almost (almost) give the Welcome Pig a pitying look as he passes it by.

They mount the three brick steps to the front door, which is festively decorated with a cardboard cutout of a jolly, frolicking turkey (clearly in denial about the fate of his kind at Thanksgiving) as well as several ears of fake Indian corn made of virulent yellow, orange and green plastic. Sean long ago came to the conclusion that his parents’ prevailing motto is: Never buy something real, if you can find a plastic substitute.

Before they even reach the door it is opened by Sean’s mother, who has a manic, Donna Reed-esque smile pinned to her face to disguise the fact that she has witnessed her son making out in his car with his boyfriend. 

“Happy Thanksgiving,” she trills in a falsetto so high that it makes Sean’s teeth ache.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Mom,” Sean says, giving her a dutiful peck on the cheek and trying not to sneeze as his nostrils fill with the overwhelmingly floral scent of Wind Song, her favorite perfume.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Mrs. Astin,” Elijah says earnestly, fixing her with a heartfelt gaze. “Thank you so much for inviting me to share your family’s Thanksgiving celebration.”

Resistance is futile, as Sean well knows. Under the influence of his angel’s big blue eyes, Sean’s mother immediately melts, not like the polar ice caps this time, Sean decides, but more like the finest Irish butter over a double boiler. He’s tempted to sprinkle some flour on her and make a nice roux. 

“We brought a dish for dessert,” Elijah continues, holding out the tray upon which IT is perched, shivering ominously, as if preparing to launch an attack. 

_We?_ Sean wants to jump in at this juncture and deny any involvement, no matter how minor (and his only contribution was to accompany Elijah to the supermarket and trail after him in a species of horrified trance, watching as he added items to their shopping cart that Sean would never, under threat of torture, have added to a shopping cart), in the creation of IT, but he takes his sacred duty as Elijah’s boyfriend—to support him through both the good times and the bad (and this definitely counts as the bad, in his opinion)—very seriously. So he bites his lip and manfully prepares to shoulder his share of the blame.

“It’s a Jell-O mold, made with lime Jell-O, maraschino cherries, shredded coconut, Mandarin oranges and mini-marshmallows,” Elijah explains, as if it isn’t hideously apparent already through the thin film of Saran wrap that covers the glistening bilious green mass dotted with unspeakably awful bits of Sean’s most loathed foods (if they can even be called ‘foods’; Sean suspects they are actually made of plastic and recycled rubber).

IT looks like something out of a bad 1950s science fiction movie, and Sean’s well-developed sense of Impending Doom just knows that his dreams tonight won’t be haunted by deformed gourds, but by oozing, slimy, bilious green, marshmallow-dotted Jell-O, chasing him around the streets of Tokyo to the accompaniment of his out-of-lip-synch screams. Some things are sadly inevitable.

But Sean’s mother’s eyes sparkle as she accepts the wobbling Mound of Toxic Terror with every evidence of delight, instead of turning pale and shrinking back with a shriek of horror at the repulsive sight, as Boots, Sean’s only ally in all of this, had done (well, in actual point of fact, Boots had hissed and, fur standing on end, fled the kitchen as if the hounds of hell were at her heels, thus proving categorically (no pun intended) that she had chosen the right household to move into). 

The last faint vestige of hope Sean has nurtured that maybe he wasn’t accidentally swapped with another baby in the hospital as an infant vanishes. No, somewhere out there a thirty-something man is roaming the streets of Paris hunting for a McDonald’s and wishing his parents (who in Sean’s imagination look exactly like Frasier and Niles Crane) would stop listening to so much opera and put on Barry Manilow or Yanni instead. He heaves a wistful mental sigh for what might have been.

“Well, I must say, Elijah, this is quite a change from what Sean usually brings for Thanksgiving dinner.” Sean’s mother darts a quick glance at Sean to let him know that he doesn’t have to worry about her giving him any credit for IT.

Considering that for the past two Thanksgivings Sean had brought, respectively, baked brie en croute with apricot chutney, and blini with Beluga caviar and sour cream, he thinks her thinly veiled criticism is a bit much. But he needn’t have worried. His ex-garbageman is, as always, on the job, alert for any sign that his boyfriend is under attack. Elijah might have sucked royally at emptying garbage cans, but when it comes to boyfriend defending, he makes his erstwhile refuse collection partner Clive, aka Behemoth, look like a 98-pound weakling.

A familiar hint of flinty gray appears in those glorious sapphire blue eyes, and a thrill courses through Sean as Elijah slips his arm through Sean’s, hugs it, and states firmly and untruthfully, “It was entirely Sean’s idea.” Even Innate Truthfulness can’t stand up to flinty gray orbs.

“Really?” Sean’s mother says, clearly not buying it.

“Really,” Elijah replies implacably, and the flinty gray intensifies.

“I’ll just go put this in the kitchen,” Sean’s mother says, yielding the field of victory to Elijah without a fight. “You two boys run along to the family room.”

“Oh wait, Mom,” Sean says. “Don’t go just yet. I brought you a little present.” He nods at Elijah, who opens his messenger bag, takes out an 8x10 manila envelope and hands it to Sean.

“Oh?” Her tone is extremely non-committal, and Sean isn’t positive, but he’s pretty sure he catches a flicker of apprehension in her eyes. But for once, Sean knows that he has nailed the gift-giving thing. Like IT, this will be right up his mom’s alley. And he’d thought of it all on his own, too, without any input from Elijah.

He undoes the envelope’s metal clasp and carefully removes the contents. With a triumphant flourish, he holds it up in front of his mother. “It’s an autographed photo of David Duchovny,” he says, beaming. “I know you’ve become a huge fan of his recently, so when he came into the office last week to meet with his accountant, I got him to sign this photo for you. It’s even personalized.”

Sean’s mother goes beet red. “Oh my word. Imagine that!” she gabbles. “My very own autographed photo of David Duchovny. Lucky me.” Her face turns even redder so that she positively glows, like Rudolph’s nose in a blizzard. “Tuck it under my arm, would you, sweetheart? I’ll take it into the kitchen with me and, um, admire it there. I have to get this Jell-O mold into the fridge right away.”

“Okay, Mom.” Sean obliges, sliding the photo securely into place, and as he watches her flee, thinks sentimentally how sweet it is that she has a crush on an actor. It’s totally unlike her, and why she would choose David Duchovny, who (as far as Sean knows) has more or less disappeared off the face of the earth in recent years, not to mention all that fuss over his supposed sex addiction, is a mystery to him. But considering the number of times she’s mentioned ‘that nice David Duchovny’ to Sean, practically every time they talk these days, in fact, and in the sort of incoherent tones that Sean recognizes from his own attempts to talk to her about Elijah, it’s clear that she’s got it, and got it bad.

He and Elijah have speculated on the matter, and decided that she must be watching reruns of The X-Files, even though, as Sean told Elijah, Oprah and Judge Judy have always been more her style. 

“Aw,” Elijah says, hugging Sean’s arm again, “your mom is so sweet, Seanie. Did you see how flustered she got? She must really have a crush on him.” He leans in and kisses Sean on the cheek. “It was so amazing of you to get that photo for her, sweetie. I bet she cherishes it for the rest of her life.”

“She really seemed to like it, didn’t she?” Sean says, pleased as punch, and thinking what a good thing it is that he’s already bought the complete collector’s edition of The X-Files for her as a Christmas present. (Sean tries very, very hard to have all his Christmas presents bought and wrapped by Thanksgiving, thus avoiding the last minute Christmas rush, and any possibility of a trip to the mall, where the ratio of coughing, sneezing, snotty-nosed children to adults is always at an all-time high, and he might catch a glimpse of the Terror of his Childhood: Santa Claus). 

"She loved it, I could tell," Elijah assures him. "Now come on, we better go find your dad and your brother."

Dutifully, if reluctantly, Sean troops off with Elijah to the family room. No living room for his boyfriend today, not because Elijah is considered a part of the family now (though Sean has very high hopes), but because it's Thanksgiving, and in the Astin household, Thanksgiving means one thing and one thing only (well, besides gorging on turkey and all the trimmings, that is): football. And there is no television in the living room.

Sean's father and brother barely acknowledge their entrance and hellos, but years of experience have told Sean to expect nothing less, and he'd made sure to warn Elijah ahead of time. The two Astin men are hunched forward in their seats—Sean’s father in his La-Z-Boy, his brother on the sofa—with elbows on knees and Budweisers in hand, and their attention is focused on the television with even greater intensity than when Sean and Elijah are watching Men with Brooms. 

Sean's brother waves his beer vaguely in their direction, all the while his eyes are fixed to the action on the TV screen. "Offsides!" he suddenly yells, leaping to his feet. "He was clearly offsides, you moron!"

Sean's father doesn't even wave a vague hand. "That idiot referee!" he grumbles. "I can't believe he didn't throw a flag on that play!"

Sean sighs. "Beer, Elijah?" he asks, reaching for the red Igloo cooler on the coffee table, which also contains two trays filled with his mother’s usual selection of 60s retro hors d’oeuvres: wieners in blankets, stuffed celery stalks, mini-gherkins, and Velveeta on Ritz crackers.

They take up a spot on the sofa, side by side. Elijah drinks a Bud (Sean wouldn't be caught dead drinking something that, in his opinion, tastes like it was flavored with dirty athletic socks, and his attempts to replace Budweiser with an expensive microbrewery ale have been met with incredulous looks and 'But we always drink Budweiser on Thanksgiving, Sean') and munches happily on hors d’oeuvres while they watch incomprehensible play after incomprehensible play, occasionally poking each other and discreetly pointing out a particularly fine ass as the players pile on top of each other. 

Of course, no ass is as fine as the angelically hot one that is nestled cozily up against his on the sofa, and daydreaming about that perfect ten on the ass-o-meter helps Sean to while away the time in a manner that had never before been possible on Thanksgiving.

During one of the commercial breaks, Sean's father rouses from his football stupor, and addresses Elijah. “So Elijah, what’s your favorite football team?” he asks.

Sean immediately tenses, sensing danger looming on the horizon: a threat to his father’s previously high opinion of his son’s new boyfriend, who had brought him Jim Beam and knowledgeably discussed baseball with him (not to mention laughed at all his lame jokes).

This sense of Impending Doom is because Elijah had regretfully informed Sean on the drive over to his parents’ house that, unlike baseball, he didn't know shit about football, as he'd never dated a guy who was into it. "I do think their asses look great in those tight uniform pants, though," he'd said, but Sean is pretty sure that his father isn’t going to be particularly impressed by Elijah’s opinion of the various asses on display.

"Oh, I don't have a favorite, Mr. Astin," Elijah says brightly, and then adds with (in Sean's opinion) almost suicidal bravery, "I'm not really into football."

To Sean’s relief, his father, perhaps still under the benign influence of Mr. Beam and the LA Dodgers, looks only mildly disappointed. But Sean's brother rolls his eyes in an exaggerated manner. "Neither is Sean," he says, and the pitying note, as if Sean was somehow born defective (instead of with a Crane-like appreciation for the finer things in life), is plain to hear.

Sean waits for the flinty gray to put in another appearance, but to his surprise, Elijah just takes a swig of his beer, seeming unperturbed by Sean’s brother’s implied insult, and crunches down another mini-gherkin. The commercial break ends and the game resumes. 

"I think you'd make a wonderful football player, sweetie," Elijah remarks a few minutes later.

Sean can't help but smile at that, even as a warm glow suffuses his being at Elijah’s faith in his athletic prowess. True, he has proven his prowess on the squash court (in more ways than one) but Innate Truthfulness compels him to say, "I'm 5 foot nothing, Elijah. I'd never make it as a football player even if I was into football."

"But you've got grit and determination, Sean, and you're very, very brave."

This comment, which has Sean wanting to rush right out and audition (or whatever it is guys do) for the nearest football team, penetrates the sports-induced haze that fogs the brains of Sean's father and brother. They turn their heads as one and stare at Elijah in total disbelief. Sean is many things to his family—obsessive-compulsive, neurotic, fussy, snobbish and anal would top the list—but brave isn’t one of them.

Having got their undivided attention, Elijah goes on without batting an eyelash, "And you’d lookincredibly hot in one of those tight uniforms, too."

Sean can't help but feel a (possibly unworthy) sense of satisfaction as disbelief morphs into horror on his father's and brother's faces as his gay boyfriend brings up his gayness right in front of them.

"Of course, I wouldn't really like it if a bunch of other guys in tight uniforms jumped on top of you, sweetie," Elijah says, frowning and setting his hand possessively on Sean’s thigh. "You’re far too attractive. So maybe, on second thought, it would be better if you don't play football after all. What do you think?" Elijah turns a brightly enquiring gaze on Sean’s father and brother. “Don’t you think Sean is much too attractive to play football?”

Sean's brother chokes, and starts to cough violently. Elijah, sitting next to him, helpfully pounds him on the back. Sean's father, the tips of his ears flaming, stares fixedly at the TV screen without replying. Elijah slides a sidelong look at Sean, and winks. 

Touchdown, Wood.

This new evidence of Elijah’s love and devotion causes Sean to zone out totally. He remains zoned out, floating high above the earth on a cloud of angelic, Elijah-induced bliss, until his mother appears in the doorway a few minutes later, turkey baster in hand, and, once again channeling Donna Reed, as she always does on such occasions, announces in a gay, sing-song voice, “Dinner is served, everyone!”

She still looks flushed, which could be from the heat of the kitchen, where she has been industriously overcooking their meal, but Sean prefers to believe the flush is caused by the photo of David Duchovny that she has (no doubt) propped up on the kitchen counter so she can admire it while she overcooks. It’s a charming mental image to contemplate (the admiring of David Duchovny, not the overcooking, which is less charming than appetite destroying) and Sean might be tempted to go into the kitchen and admire David, too, (and just possibly preen himself on the unparalleled excellence of his gift-giving skills while there) except for three things. 

The first is that on Thanksgiving Day, the kitchen is sacrosanct to his mother and her overcooking, and she only grudgingly makes room for anyone else (especially Sean, who likes to bring his own designer kitchenware to prepare his contributions, and can’t stop himself from saying, as he peers into a boiling pot, “Don’t you think that’s cooked long enough, Mom?”). 

The second thing is the overwhelming presence of avocado-green Formica and linoleum there, because the room hasn’t been remodeled since the 1970s. Going into his parents’ kitchen always fills Sean with a nigh overpowering urge to find a crowbar and start prying at the nearest flat surface, which is guaranteed to be covered in avocado something. 

And the third thing is the effect of his mother’s announcement on his father and brother, which is little short of cataclysmic. Football is instantly forgotten, and the annual Astin Family Thanksgiving Day Dinner Stampede, as Sean thinks of it, ensues.

“Don’t move,” Sean says quickly to Elijah, who is about to get up, and places a cautionary hand on his boyfriend’s arm—just in the nick of time, too, for at that very moment his father and brother thunder past, heading in the direction of the dining room. Elijah, so sylph-like, wouldn’t have stood a chance.

“Fuck, Seanie, your mom’s Thanksgiving dinner must be fucking incredible,” Elijah says in awe. “I’ve never seen two grown men move so fast, even those guys on the football field.”

“Elijah…” Sean begins, once again poised to enlighten Elijah on the topic of his mother’s Thanksgiving Dinner Overcook-A-Thon, but he subsides as Elijah grabs a final wiener in a blanket from the tray. He sucks it off the green-frilled toothpick that has been stuck into it with a hum of pleasure, and for once Sean can’t be distracted by the suggestive sight. 

Though he likes to think that he and Elijah are of one mind and heart about most things, food, alas, is not one of them. There seems to be very little that Elijah doesn’t like, from the junkiest of junk food to the most expensive gourmet fare, and Sean’s attempts to educate his ex-garbageman’s palate have thus far been a dismal failure, much as his attempts (half-hearted, to be sure, due to his prevailing knee fetish) to improve his fashion sense have also been a dismal failure. 

But unlike the artfully ripped jeans which allow flashes of Elijah’s pale bony kneecaps to peek coyly out and entice Sean to explore them, Sean can find nothing enticing about Hostess Sno Balls, Campbell’s SpaghettiO’s, Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, or, of course, lime Jell-O dotted with unspeakably awful bits of faux food. 

It’s an enduring mystery to Sean how someone as wealthy as Elijah can have such pedestrian tastes in food (except in the matter of pizza, where Elijah is, unexpectedly, a purist of almost Sean-like proportions, and even brought his own pizza stone with him when he moved in—his sole offering to the Gods of Domesticity whom Sean worships).

But on the other hand, Sean comforts himself as he and Elijah (holding hands, of course) make their way to the dining room, he has made major strides with Elijah’s awareness of germs and how to protect himself from them, and even tempered his chronic messiness a little (except in their bedroom, of course, where Chaos will always reign supreme). So all in all, he really can’t complain.

“Wow, Mrs. Astin, everything smells fantastic, and the table looks so beautiful,” Elijah enthuses as they enter the candlelit dining room. “I just love that centerpiece and the matching candlestick holders.”

“Thank you, Elijah dear,” Sean’s mother replies, casting a suspicious look at Sean, as if she’s wondering whether he set Elijah up to say that (which he hadn’t). “Sean gave them to me a few years ago.”

It’s another of life’s enduring mysteries that his mother not only accepted the hideously expensive crystal and brass horn of plenty centerpiece and matching candlestick holders from Sean, but she actually uses them, too. He feels certain that a guilty conscience (possibly for the baby swapping incident when he was an infant) plays into it, but he’d decided that for once, he wouldn’t agonize over motivations. After all, one mustn’t look a gift horn-of-plenty in the mouth, and the sight of the tastefully gleaming crystal and brass is a balm to Sean’s soul—as long as he doesn’t look at the curio cabinet, that is, in which resides his mother’s collection of nightmare-inducing clown figurines and repulsively twee baby animals, that is.

“I’m not surprised, Mrs. Astin. Sean has the most exquisite taste,” Elijah says, and his eyes glow with fervent admiration as he puts his arm around Sean and hugs him.

There is an appalled (and fortunately brief) silence at yet another display of gay guys being gay, and then Sean’s mother says, her manic, Donna Reed-esque smile firmly fixed in place, “Well, let’s all sit down, shall we? Elijah, you sit here next to me, and Sean, you sit on the other side, beside your brother.”

Obediently, everyone assumes their places. It’s a transparent move by his mother to separate him from Elijah, but Sean doesn’t mind, for the warm golden candlelight plays over the face of the angelically beautiful (not to mention insanely hot) being seated across from him, emphasizing his perfect bone structure and the slight cleft in his chin, and turning his sapphire blue eyes into midnight pools of mystery in which Sean can blissfully drown…

Sean zones out again, lost in contemplation of the wonder that is Elijah.

“Sean? Sean?” A voice intrudes on his blissful drowning, rather like a mosquito buzzing annoyingly around his face; he’s tempted to slap at it. “Sean? Your father is about to Carve the Turkey.”

Uh-oh. Sean snaps out of it, for it would never do not to pay proper respect to his father at this all important moment. Everyone in the family has their role to play in the Thanksgiving drama (Sean sometimes thinks that his primary role is that of Comic Relief or possibly the Disaster Looming on the Horizon) and Sean’s father’s role is Carver of the Turkey. 

The turkey, a Butterball, of course, (Sean’s offer to bring an organic, free-range turkey that died of natural causes has, not surprisingly, been rejected with a ‘But we always have a Butterball turkey on Thanksgiving, Sean’) sits on a large avocado-green plastic platter in front of his father, who is in his accustomed station at the head of the table. He has donned his festive Thanksgiving apron (a gift from Sean’s brother, whose sense of humor, so like their father’s, is yet more evidence that Sean was baby-swapped), which features another in-denial turkey, this one apparently prepared to cannibalize its own kind, for it has a white dinner napkin tied around its neck, a knife and fork clutched in either wing, and a jolly, lip-smacking grin on its face. ‘Happy Thanksgiving! What’s for dinner?’ is the message printed above it. 

What Sean’s father clutches, not in his wing but in his right hand, is an electric knife with an avocado-green plastic handle. Electric knives, like stuffed celery stalks and wieners in blankets, went out of style decades earlier, but his father never got the memo, either. 

_Vroom, vroom_. 

Sean’s father revs the knife as if it were a chainsaw, and smiles with satisfaction. Sean has long suspected that what his father sees in his mind as he prepares to cut into the turkey is not a 60s-ish, balding, slightly overweight, soon to retire mail carrier, but Paul Bunyan or John Henry or (god forbid, but the manic gleam in his father’s eyes at this moment makes Sean wonder) Leatherface. (Of whose existence Sean is only aware because Elijah is a huge fan of horror movies and brought his entire, extensive DVD collection with him when he moved in. One night he’d proposed they watch The Texas Chain Saw Massacre together, and Sean, in a fit of boyfriendly bravery, had agreed. Elijah had been extremely remorseful and apologetic when Sean finally recovered from his faint.)

_Vroom, vroom_. 

Sean’s father stoops and sets the blade to the Butterball’s overcooked breast. Everyone (even Elijah, who, with true angelic intuitiveness, has sensed the drama of the moment) holds their breath. 

_Errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr_.

The blade slices neatly into the turkey, and the all-important first slice, the one that determines whether Sean’s father will sulk for the rest of the meal because he cut it too thick or too thin or off-center, falls neatly onto the platter. He smiles triumphantly, as if he has just won the National Turkey Carving Championship.

Everyone exhales with relief. The turkey carving is a success. 

While he continues to wield the electric knife, the bowls and platters of side dishes move around the table. Lumpy dry mashed potatoes, soggy green bean casserole, slightly burnt sweet potatoes with charred marshmallows on top, sliced cranberry sauce (Ocean Spray, and blessedly uncooked), rolls that could have a second career as miniature boulders, and stuffing that is (impossibly) both soggy and burnt, make their way from person to person (save Sean’s father, whose plate is filled by Sean’s mother). Sean takes as little of everything (save the cranberry sauce which he spoons onto the plate with a generous hand) as he thinks he can get away with, while Elijah piles his plate high under Sean’s mother’s approving gaze.

Sean’s father finishes his carving, and passes the platter to Sean’s brother, who grabs a prized drumstick, decorated in retro 70s fashion with a frilled light blue paper cuff. Sean takes what looks like the least dry white breast meat of the lot and hands the platter across the table to Elijah. Elijah starts to reach for the second drumstick, but Sean stretches his foot out under the table and (gently, of course) kicks him. Elijah looks at him, and Sean shakes his head. The second drumstick always goes to Sean’s father. Elijah takes the hint and passes over the drumstick for a wing, thus averting a faux pas of monumental proportions. 

The gravy boat makes the rounds last of all, and scarcely has Sean’s father finished drowning his plate in lumpy, slightly scorched turkey gravy when Sean’s mother asks, as she does every year, “Who wants to say grace?”

Elijah opens his mouth, clearly about to volunteer, but Sean is ready with foot outstretched, and (gently, of course) kicks him again. He shakes his head slightly when Elijah gives him a disappointed look. Much as he would enjoy hearing his angel say grace (and he can’t help but think that God really would be listening this time), the Saying of Grace is his brother’s role in the annual Thanksgiving drama.

“I’ll do it, Mom,” Sean’s brother pipes up, right on cue. He glances around the table, making certain that he’s now the center of attention, as is his due. “Everyone ready?” 

“But aren’t we going to hold hands?” Elijah asks in surprise. “In my family, we always hold hands during grace.” 

He might as well have asked them to take off all their clothes and dance naked on the table during grace. The Astins aren’t a family of hand holders. But Sean’s mother and father exchange a look, and Sean sees his mother mouth, “The Refuse King.” Their respect for (one might almost call it ‘terror of’) Elijah’s father is so great that had Elijah in fact proposed they take off all their clothes and dance naked on the table during grace, they might have done it.

“Oh, of course, dear,” Sean’s mother says merrily. “We, um, just hadn’t gotten to that part yet.”

Beaming, Elijah holds out one hand to her and stretches the other across the table to Sean. As Sean reaches out to take it, he can’t help but feel relieved that his seasickness prevented him and Elijah from joining Elijah’s parents on the Lucky Landfill for Thanksgiving; the idea of actually holding hands with Warren Wood the Refuse King is so petrifying that Sean is certain he’d have chickened out and simply thrown himself overboard to be a Thanksgiving feast for the sharks.

Elijah’s hand is angelically soft and warm and perfect as it nestles confidingly into Sean’s, and totally makes up for the gingerly way his brother is holding his other hand, as if it’s road kill or toxic waste. But then, Sean and his brother have never held hands before in their entire lives, so he can hardly blame him.

“Okay, everyone ready now?” Sean’s brother says with some sarcasm and a disgruntled glance at Elijah, who just smiles beatifically back at him and says, “Ready!”

“All right, here we go…” his brother begins with relish.

Sean mentally cringes, for like the Budweiser, the Butterball, and the retro hors d’oeuvres, what’s coming next is sadly predictable. 

“Good food, good friends, good God, let’s eat!” His brother declaims as if he’s Abraham Lincoln or Martin Luther King, and the words have barely left his mouth when he’s dropped Sean’s hand and picked up his fork.

The incredulous expression on Elijah’s face makes Sean positively giddy with happiness. It’s nearly as uplifting as the Welcome Pig comment. He gives Elijah’s hand (which he is, of course, still holding) a conspiratorial squeeze. They exchange a look of perfect understanding, he and his angelic ex-garbageman, and Sean feels that he could sit there, holding Elijah’s hand and staring into the midnight pools of mystery that are his eyes, forever…

Or until his mother interrupts. 

“Aren’t you going to eat?” she asks pointedly, staring at their clasped hands, and Sean reluctantly lets go and picks up his fork.

Other than Elijah’s frequent compliments to Sean’s mother on the excellence of her cooking (compliments which Sean can’t tell for certain if Elijah means or not, but he can only hope are polite prevarications that Innate Truthfulness has grudgingly let pass), there is little conversation and much mastication as the meal progresses. 

Sean takes small bites of everything liberally mixed with cranberry sauce to ameliorate the awfulness, and focuses on the sight of Elijah, so radiantly beautiful in the candlelight that he wants to say to his brother, “Pinch me, would you? Am I, can I really be, the luckiest bastard in all of southern California (not to mention the rest of the universe, up to and including Heaven)?” It’s totally safe to zone out now, as nothing is required of Sean for the moment save to eat, and so zone out he does. He barely even notices the taste of the food, for a change, so lost is he in Elijah worshipping.

Which is why, when something unexpectedly brushes against his right leg, he is so startled that he lets out an involuntary yelp and drops his fork with a spatter of cranberry sauce. 

“Son, is everything all right?” Sean’s father asks in concern.

“Y-yes, Dad,” Sean says, picking up his fork again and very carefully cleaning it with one of the alcohol pads he keeps in readiness for just such an emergency. “My hand slipped, that’s all.”

_But is everything, in fact, fine?_ Sean has always had an irrational fear that someone or something (a giant mutant dust bunny with sharp pincers and a lust for human blood, perhaps) is lurking under the dining room table, waiting to attack. It doesn’t help that Sean also has to contend with the memory of a Thanksgiving several years ago, when his Aunt Ida Mae had joined them and brought her dog with her, a hyperactive Jack Russell terrier named Nemo who had spent the entire dinner roaming back and forth beneath the table looking for spilled food, and had goosed Sean in the crotch not once, not twice, but at least six different times. (Sean perfectly understands now why Frasier had never taken to Eddie, and why the perfect dog for him would not be a Jack Russell, but one of those skinny, timid, Maris-like dogs such as Niles had appeared with in a few episodes.)

A second brush catches him somewhat more prepared, and he manages not to embarrass himself by dropping his fork again or peeing his pants with terror, although a desire to hiss and bolt from the table, like Boots at the sight of IT, seizes him. For instead of retreating, the pincer-wielding, human-blood-craving mutant giant dust bunny (or whatever it is, and he fervently hopes that IT is still safely imprisoned in the refrigerator) lingers, moves down his shin, slides beneath the hem of his jeans’ leg, pushes it up… and begins to caress his ankle? 

With a thrill, Sean realizes that it’s not a mutant giant dust bunny, or a rogue Jell-O mold: it’s Elijah’s bare toes—those oh-so-elegant, not to mention suckable, toes that have worked their magic on Sean’s temperamental back and which Sean has (with appropriate pre- and post-sucking hygienic measures, of course) actually sucked on, to the delight of Elijah who confessed to Sean that none of his previous boyfriends had ever thought to suck on his toes, but that he finds it a total turn-on. 

Instantly, Sean’s opinion of things lurking under the dining room table turns to unqualified approval. 

How Elijah has managed to divest himself of his Chuck and his sock while simultaneously eating dinner and chatting brightly to Sean’s mother, Sean has no idea. But, as Sean well knows, multitasking has never been a problem for Elijah—far from it. 

And multitask he does, chatting and eating and making love to Sean’s calf and ankle with his foot, until Sean is so aroused that he wants to slide down under the table and imitate Nemo’s behavior (and not by hunting for dropped bits of food, either). Sean is too turned on even to be embarrassed at being turned on while eating Thanksgiving dinner with his family (a state that he never in a million years would ever have imagined was achievable, considering the dampening effect the presence of his family has on romance). From time to time, Elijah’s eyes flit to him, and he smiles impishly, perfectly well aware of what he’s doing to his boyfriend, and takes another bite of gravy smothered, overcooked something. 

Where it all would have ended (probably with Sean being thrown out of the house in disgrace and told never to darken its cardboard-turkey-cutout-and-fake-Indian-corn-decorated door again), Sean never finds out. He can’t decide if he’s more relieved or disappointed when his father, with a satisfied sigh, sets down his knife and fork. He leans back in his chair, pats his round tummy and says, “Well, I’m stuffed, just like that bird was.”

Sean’s mother and brother laugh merrily. Sean represses a groan, not from the lameness of the timeworn joke, but the removal of Elijah’s magic foot, which had been rhythmically and suggestively kneading his calf (Elijah has a thing for Sean’s calves, which he claims are a perfect 10 in shape and musculature). 

“Everything was fantastic, Mrs. Astin,” Elijah says, wiping up the last bit of gravy from his empty plate with a pebble of bread and popping it in his mouth, while Sean prays fervently that he won’t damage the incendiary gap between his two front teeth.

Sean’s mother beams. “Thank you, Elijah. But Sean,” she goes on, frowning, “you didn’t eat very much, honey. I do hope…” She hesitates. “I do hope you’re not…” She hesitates again, glances at his father, and then says quickly, “I do hope you’re not coming down with something. Your face looks rather flushed.”

Sean’s father and brother stare at Sean in alarm, and with good reason.

For in any other circumstances, the merest hint of a suggestion of an implication that Sean might be ‘coming down with something’ would be enough to convince him that he’s caught bubonic plague or yellow fever or ebola or (considering he’s been eating his mother’s cooking) food poisoning, and send him racing for the nearest emergency room. 

But considering the size of the erection he’s battling, and the fact that his blood feels like it’s attained a temperature that could melt the most expensive Belgian dark chocolate in mere seconds, he knows what he needs isn’t the nearest hospital emergency room, but the nearest horizontal surface (preferably a bed), Elijah (reclining naked on the horizontal surface) and some privacy (and maybe some of that melted chocolate, too, although that isn’t absolutely essential).

“I’m fine, Mom, really,” Sean replies. “I guess I ate too much breakfast.”

There’s a stunned silence. Sean never says that he’s ‘fine, Mom, really’. ‘Positive I’m dying this time, Mom,’ or ‘call an infectious diseases expert before it’s too late, Dad,’ is a more typical response. 

“I can absolutely guarantee that Sean is perfect in health, Mrs. Astin,” Elijah puts in helpfully. “Why, just this morning, he and I…”

“Time for dessert!” Sean’s mother trills, levitating from the table as if she’s sprouted wings.

“And coffee,” Sean’s father adds, doing some kick-ass levitating of his own. “I’d better go put on the percolator.”

“I’ll clear the dinner plates,” Sean’s brother says, an offer he’s never made before, since clearing the table has always been one of Sean’s primary Thanksgiving duties.

In mere seconds, or so it seems, the dining room is empty save for him and Elijah. Elijah grins mischievously. “Do I know how to get us some alone time, or what?” he says, holding out his hand to Sean again.

Sean takes it, kisses it emotionally, and says, “Elijah, I love you.”

“I love you, too, Seanie.”

Sean stares (a goofy stare, no doubt, but he doesn’t care) into those midnight pools of mystery, which in point of fact, aren’t very mysterious at the moment, for he can read them quite clearly as he and Elijah hold one of the wordless conversations at which they have become so expert (ever since the glorious day that their romance blossomed with the locking of eyes through Sean’s kitchen window as Elijah spilled Sean’s garbage all over his pristine driveway). The conversation consists mainly of regret that they aren’t really alone, and reassurances by Elijah of his continued appreciation for Sean’s incredible hotness (with particular emphasis on his muscular calves), and Sean telling Elijah that he’s an angel. It’s a retread, but one that never grows old.

Eventually, Sean catches out of the corner of his eye a glimpse of his mother poking her head cautiously through the doorway, as if afraid of what she might find (with some justification, Sean has to admit). If Sean were a different type of person, he might have enjoyed being a fly on the wall for whatever discussion had taken place among his parents and brother in the kitchen. But if it’s possible for flies to expire from embarrassment, he feels certain that his lifeless fly body would even now be lying upside on the avocado-green linoleum, tiny fly legs pointing stiffly ceiling-ward.

Apparently judging it safe to return, as no further overt displays of gayness seem imminent, Sean’s family troops back in. His brother carries the pumpkin and pecan pies (store-bought, and therefore entirely safe to eat), his father the coffee in a Pyrex carafe, and his mother, triumphant, bears IT on a tray. 

The glow of candlelight only makes the wobbling, bilious green mass of IT look even scarier, and Sean wonders if tomorrow’s news headlines will be about five people found mysteriously dead in a suburban LA bungalow, nothing left but their flesh-stripped, acid-scorched bones. Take IT away, please, he wants to beg his mother, but Elijah has told her that it was all his idea, and boyfriendly honor dictates that he keep up the pretence.

While his father pours the coffee—as usual, strong enough to strip paint from the walls (and Sean has been tempted to use it on the kitchen walls, which are painted a tangerine orange of truly unspeakable hideousness)—his mother goes around the table, inquiring of each person which desserts they prefer, and then serving them up with a large dollop of Cool Whip, another of those faux foods that fill Sean with dread.

“Sean?” she asks when she reaches him. “What would you like?”

“Just a small slice of pecan pie, Mom,” Sean replies, thinking of his perpetual diet. “And no Cool Whip, please.”

“Oh, but you have to have some of this delicious Jell-O mold you made. I absolutely insist,” she says, a steely, implacable glint in her eyes, the same steely, implacable glint that has made her the star of the California Department of Motor Vehicles, where she has worked in vehicle registrations for the past thirty years. (His mother might suck at cooking, but when it comes to making hapless Californians provide adequate evidence of smog certification, she takes no prisoners.) 

Too late, Sean realizes that his mom (not to mention Innate Truthfulness) isn’t about to allow him and Elijah to get off scot-free with their IT lies, and the instant she appeared in the doorway with IT, he should have snatched up Elijah and run like hell, without looking back. 

Sean is now, as Elijah would say, totally fucked.

Panicked horror seizes him as she takes up the stainless steel serving spoon, which glints evilly in the candlelight like a scalpel in the hand of Viktor Frankenstein, digs it into IT and plops a large, ominously quivering glop onto his glass dessert plate. Next to IT she places a small wedge of pecan pie, and holds it out across the table. “Here you go, honey,” she says sweetly, exactly the way she probably sounds to hapless motorists whose applications are stamped REJECTED.

Sean takes the plate, knowing that not even Elijah, watching him with worried, sympathetic eyes, can save him this time. He’s doomed. Oh, if only the previously underappreciated Nemo was roaming beneath the table hunting for scraps, he thinks. He could have it all, and goose Sean’s crotch into the bargain.

He delays the moment of truth for as long as possible, eating the pecan pie (which thankfully hasn’t made contact with IT and been contaminated) first, with excruciating slowness, pecan by pecan. Maybe, he thinks in desperation, if he dawdles until everyone else is finished, he can get away without eating any of IT. 

No such luck. 

“Sean dear, you haven’t tried your Jell-O,” his mother helpfully points out, and, as everyone else has polished off their dessert, he is now the cynosure of all eyes, a distinction he has never enjoyed holding at the best of times, much less the worst, and this definitely counts as one of the worst.

With trembling hand, Sean lifts his dessert spoon and, trying not to look too closely, sticks it into IT. IT quivers and wobbles and shakes, and Sean’s heart quails at the very thought of putting something so… so alive into his mouth. But then he feels a familiar brush against his ankle, and Elijah’s bare foot soothes along it, tracing the angel wing tattoo beneath the anklebone. He glances at his boyfriend, and Elijah gives him a look of total faith and confidence. You can do this, Sean, that look says. I believe in you.

Well, in the face of such a tribute, what else can Sean do? He bravely lifts the spoon to his mouth, and before he can change his mind, like a member of the Polar Bear Club about to plunge into the icy waters of the Atlantic Ocean on a freezing January day, swallows IT.

IT is more repulsive tasting and disgustingly slimy than even his rampageous imagination could ever have imagined. He tries very hard not to think about what he’s just done, but focuses instead on Elijah’s foot, sending messages of comfort, calm and reassurance. He thinks, too, about what Elijah had said earlier in the family room, about Sean possessing grit and determination and bravery, and he thinks about hugging trees naked in the rain, risking contracting flesh-eating disease, and somehow he finds the strength to finish IT, every last repulsive, slimy, wobbling bite.

“Mm, that was yummy,” he lies, for once getting no argument from Innate Truthfulness, which is looking pale and sickly. 

He sets down his spoon, and prays fervently he won’t spoil his moment of triumph by throwing up, which is the urgent message his stomach, unhappy at this betrayal, is sending him. He wonders if he should have Elijah take him to the emergency room now to have his stomach pumped, or wait until the food poisoning sets in. He’s not sure even the presence of George Clooney, the closeted gay emergency room doctor, would deter him this time.

But then, before he can reach meltdown stage, Elijah’s toes paint a message on his shin: _Oh Sean, you are so brave_.

Sean draws a deep breath, wills his stomach not to betray him and embarrass him in front of his boyfriend, and miraculously, it subsides, grumbling but obedient. 

His mother gives him a speculative look, but then she smiles, all Donna Reed-esque again. “Aren’t you glad you tried some, honey?” she coos.

“Oh yes,” Sean lies, and has a new appreciation for the balls of steel concealed behind Donna Reed’s manic smile. 

Dinner being officially at an end, and his mother satisfied that she has now evened the score, Sean’s father and brother decamp, the siren call of the TV in the family room too strong to ignore. 

“I’ll clear the table and do the dishes, Mom,” Sean volunteers. Not only is this his Official Thanksgiving Duty, but he will take particular delight in dropping the remains of IT into the garbage disposal and hitting the switch under the sink. Even the thought of how he’ll be contaminating the public water supply can’t affect the glee he feels as he imagines the moment when the blades start spinning and the intense satisfaction it will bring.

“I’ll help, too,” Elijah pipes up eagerly.

“No, no,” she replies, much to Sean’s surprise, for she has, after all, done her duty by overcooking the meal, and she is no fool: a son like Sean, who actually enjoys doing the dishes, and leaves her kitchen so spotlessly clean that Queen Elizabeth couldn’t take a white glove to it and complain, is a rarity. She even makes sure to keep a plentiful supply of rubber gloves for his use. “I’ll take care of the washing up. Why don’t the two of you run along to the family room and watch some football?”

As she’s speaking, her suspicious eyes dart from him to Elijah and back again, and Sean, understanding, feels his cheeks heat. Of course! She doesn’t want him and Elijah alone in the kitchen together, getting up to god knows what sorts of things gay guys get up to in the kitchen while doing the washing up. (Sean could tell her, since he and Elijah have pretty much got up to every conceivable thing two gay guys can get up to in the kitchen while doing the washing up, but despite the IT Incident—as he will forever now think of it—he does honestly and truly love his mother, and so he keeps his lips tactfully clamped shut and doesn’t enlighten her).

“Since you don’t need us to help with the washing up, Mrs. Astin, Sean and I are going to go for a walk,” Elijah announces, getting up from the table and revealing that he has magically reassumed his sock and Chuck.

Though he’d had no prior knowledge of Elijah’s plan, the proposed walk is welcome news to Sean, whose main reason for assuming the mantle of Chief Washer-Upper is to avoid having to sit in the family room and watch more football with his father and brother. Besides, the sun is shining and when Sean had checked the Daily Air Quality Forecast that morning before he and Elijah left their house, the predicted smog levels were acceptably low. They won’t even need to wear the special carbon filter air pollution masks he keeps in the Lexus’s glove compartment for emergencies. 

“That sounds like an excellent idea, Elijah,” Sean’s mother approves, thinking, no doubt, that there is nothing her son and his boyfriend can get up to on a walk out-of-doors (of course, she has no idea about the night he and Elijah had run naked around Sean’s front lawn in the rain—which is the least of the things he and Elijah have got up to in the Great Outdoors, thus proving that Sean has indeed come a very long way, since previously the odds of him doing anything as risky as lying down in the grass with the ants and the spiders and the other scary multi-legged creatures were too astronomical to calculate—but Sean has no intention of enlightening her on that score, either). 

“Have a nice walk, boys,” his mother adds, giving them a perky Donna Reed-esque smile and a wave as they depart from the dining room.

“Thank you, Mrs. Astin,” Elijah replies. “I’m sure we will.”

Elijah walks purposefully to the front door, only pausing to pick up his messenger bag, which he has left on a chair in the foyer. He opens the door, but to Sean’s bewilderment, after waiting a few beats, he closes it again—almost slams it shut, in point of fact.

“Elijah…” Sean begins, but Elijah holds a finger to his lips, and shakes his head. Then he leans in close and whispers in Sean’s ear, “Be quiet and follow me.”

He takes Sean by the hand and, tiptoeing exaggeratedly, starts up the stairs to the second floor. Sean follows him (for he would, of course, follow his angel anywhere) but he is totally clueless as to what is going on. The stairs are carpeted so that they move as silently and stealthily as hobbits intent on nicking mushrooms, but when they reach the landing, Elijah stops. He cocks his head to the side, listening intently, and then whispers, “Where’s your bedroom?” 

Sean gestures to the end of the hallway, and Elijah tiptoes in that direction until he reaches a door bearing a plastic nameplate (tastefully adorned with an intricate floral border) that says ‘Sean’s Room’. He eases open the door, pulls Sean inside and, very, very quietly this time, shuts it. 

By this point, Sean is beginning to have a clue. ‘Going for a walk’, he realizes, is yet another of Elijah’s euphemisms for having sex. But surely Elijah can’t seriously intend for them to have sex in Sean’s old bedroom, while Sean’s family is downstairs, in the same house at the same time…

Elijah opens the flap of his messenger bag (which Sean has concluded is the heavenly equivalent of Sam Gamgee’s backpack, or Twoflower’s Luggage, for whatever they need, it seems able to provide) and takes out a tube of Astroglide.

Apparently yes, then, he does intend it. _Holy shit_ , Sean thinks, unable to decide if he’s more titillated or terrified, but definitely turned on.

“Seanie,” Elijah says, tossing the lube on Sean’s neatly made bed, where it bounces suggestively on the perfectly smooth white eyelet bedspread, “I don’t ever want you to come in here again and feel sad about getting your braces stuck with that Tommy whatshisface. I’m gonna make sure that from now on, any time you set foot in this room, you’ll be the happiest fucking guy in the entire world because of the totally amazing sex you and I had.” There’s no teasing now in his blue eyes, for his angelic ex-garbageman is entirely, deadly serious. 

“Oh Elijah,” Sean says, tearing up. “You… you… you… you’re…”

Elijah’s hands move to Sean’s light blue Ralph Lauren button down and start nimbly attacking the buttons. “Sweetie,” he says, “I can absolutely, positively guarantee that no angel ever did what I’m about to do to you.” He gives Sean a brief demonstration, and Sean is forced to agree. At least for the present, Elijah is no angel.

Making love in the narrow single bed is quite a challenge, but they prove well up to the task, and, unlike during the never-to-be-forgotten Mutsugoto experiment, Sean doesn’t fall off even once (for one thing, he’s all too aware that the family room is directly beneath them; for another, Elijah’s surprisingly strong, not to mention impressively flexible, legs hold him firmly in place). A greater challenge is keeping quiet during the lovemaking, for Elijah can achieve a volume and pitch of vocal splendor that (in Sean’s opinion) qualifies him for a spot on the wall with the posters of Sean’s teenage crushes, Pavarotti, Callas, Ponselle, and Domingo, but the judicious application of Sean’s mouth to Elijah’s at the critical moment solves that problem, too.

It’s turned out to be the best walk he’s ever gone on, by a long shot, Sean thinks as he lies sprawled atop Elijah, gasping like a fish out of water.

They kiss and cuddle and exchange a few thousand whispered ‘I love yous’, and Elijah’s eyes roam around the room, more or less untouched since Sean’s high school days, and therefore obsessively tidy (Sean vacuums and dusts it regularly and polishes his cherished Debating Society trophies), and he smiles. “This is exactly the way I imagined your bedroom would look,” he says, hugging him. “I’m so glad I got to see it. You won’t let what happened with that Tommy whatsisname make you sad anymore, will you?”

“Elijah,” Sean says with feeling, “I guarantee you that the next time I come into this room, I’m not only going to be the happiest fucking guy in the entire world, but I’m going to spontaneously combust.”

Elijah beams.

Eventually they decide that it’s time to ‘return’ from their ‘walk’, and reluctantly disentangle and get up. They clean themselves using bottled water and moist toilettes supplied by Elijah’s magic messenger bag. They are just starting to put on their clothes, and Sean is wondering how he’ll ever be able to make eye contact with his parents or brother ever again, when he hears a voice, and freezes like a deer caught in a car’s headlights. 

“But what am I going to do with it?” The voice belongs to Sean’s mother, and it sounds as if she’s standing directly on the other side of the door.

Sean’s blood actually congeals with horror. There is no lock on his bedroom door, and if she were to open it now, his mother would be wishing Sean were simply getting his braces stuck to Tommy McGillicuddy’s, because not only would she catch Sean in flagrante delicto with his boxers halfway up his thighs, but Elijah’s boxer briefs haven’t even reached knee-level. It’s all there, every glorious inch, in plain sight.

“He probably expects me to frame it and hang it in our bedroom,” she goes on.

“I warned you not to get involved, didn’t I?” says a second voice. It is Sean’s father. Sean’s blood turns to solid ice. “Now see what’s happened? Our son thinks you’re obsessed with David Duchovny.”

“It never occurred to me Sean would jump to that conclusion. I thought if I just kept hinting he’d finally get my drift and seek help for his sex addiction, maybe at the same clinic David Duchovny went to.”

_Sex addiction?_ Oh dear god, Sean thinks, while wave after wave of excruciating embarrassment washes over him. Oh. Dear. God. His mother isn’t into that ‘nice David Duchovny’ at all. All that incoherent babbling was her attempt to let Sean know she thinks he has a sex addiction problem! 

He doesn’t dare to look at Elijah. He doesn’t even dare to breathe. 

“Well, it obviously didn’t work,” his father replies, “and before Sean goes and buys you every single episode of that idiotic TV show Duchovny was in, you’d better find a way to let him know your infatuation is at an end. I hate TV shows about aliens and the supernatural and whatnot.” 

His mother sighs. “I suppose you’re right.”

“And don’t think for one minute that I’m going to stand for having that man’s face leering at me from our bedroom wall, and reminding me every time I look at him that our son is a sex addict,” his father adds firmly.

“I have no intention of putting the photo anywhere in our bedroom,” his mother says indignantly. “I suppose I’ll just have to take it to work and hide it in my desk.”

“That sounds like the perfect solution to me. Now, is there anything else you need me to put away? Half-time is almost over and I’d like to get back to my football game.”

“No, that’s all for now, honey. Thank you.”

Their voices fade as they move away from the storage closet across the hall from Sean’s room, and Sean slumps with relief at the narrowness of their escape, even while simultaneously filled with a mortification so intense that he is positive he will never, ever be able to leave this bedroom, but will spend the rest of his days trapped here, a prisoner of his own embarrassment, until he eventually (due to the unwise ingestion of IT) turns, a la _The Metamorphosis_ , into a giant wobbling mound of lime-green Jell-O. He wonders if Elijah will come to visit him in his lonely exile, or if he will be so repulsed by his Jell-O boyfriend that he will abandon Sean to his tragic fate…

Finally, he dares to risk a look at Elijah. There are tears sparkling in his glorious blue eyes, and his body is trembling. Oh god, Sean thinks in a panic. Elijah is so upset by the news that Sean is a sex addict that he’s crying!

“Elijah,” he begins desperately, taking a step toward him. Only he has forgotten that his boxers are still at mid-thigh, so he trips and stumbles and pitches headfirst into Elijah, who manages to catch him around the shoulders, but, since his briefs are down around his shins, can’t maintain his balance, and goes down on his behind with a thump that Sean prays fervently is drowned out by the blaring of the TV in the family room beneath them.

The tears are streaming down Elijah’s cheeks now, and he’s shaking almost as violently as IT was on the back seat of the Lexus during their wild drive down the 405. 

“Oh my god, Elijah,” Sean says. “Don’t cry. Please, please, sweetheart, don’t cry. I’ll get treatment, I swear! I’ll…”

“Cry? Oh Sean,” he sputters, “oh Sean, that was the f-funniest thing I’ve ever heard in my entire life. No wonder your mom kept giving us those weird looks. She thinks you’re a s-sex addict!” And he completely loses it, and howls with laughter.

Sean sits there, flabbergasted by Elijah’s reaction, and then… something happens. Something totally unexpected and totally wonderful. Sean’s sense of humor (and, despite any claims to the contrary by his coworkers, he does possess one) stirs to life, rising phoenix-like from the ashes of his neuroticism and self-doubt, which have kept it under wraps for so long—until a certain angelic ex-garbageman entered Sean’s life, in fact. 

Suddenly, the absurdity of the situation hits him. Here he is, the happiest he’s ever been, enjoying a healthy sex life with his gorgeous boyfriend, and his mother starts babbling to him incessantly about David Duchovny in the hopes that he’ll take the hint and get treatment for a supposed sex addiction.

Elijah’s right; it is funny. It’s the funniest thing Sean’s ever heard, in fact, and the next thing he knows, he’s crying and shaking, too—with laughter: glorious, uninhibited, life-affirming laughter.

“Elijah,” Sean says when they’ve laughed themselves out and lie limp and gasping on the floor, a pair of fish out of water this time, “I’m still going to give my mom the complete collector’s edition of The X-Files for Christmas, and I’m going to make sure she and my dad watch every single episode.”

“That’s my Seanie,” Elijah says, beaming proudly. “You know, I like your family, sweetie, but they are kind of strange. I still can’t figure out how your mom and dad ever produced you. Do you think maybe you were accidentally swapped for another baby in the hospital?” he jokes. 

It is one of the most uplifting moments of Sean’s entire life. There’s no doubt about it. He and Elijah were Meant to Be.

Bolstered by his renewed conviction that God did not in fact make a mistake by sending his most perfect angel to save Sean from his lonely existence, Sean is able to look both his parents and his brother in the eyes when he and Elijah join them in the family room a short time later. 

He doesn’t blush, even a little, when his mother asks, “Did you and Elijah have a nice walk, sweetheart?” 

“Yes, Mom, we had a very nice walk,” he calmly replies.

~*~

“Is it all right with you if I drive home?” Sean says as they make their way down the red begonia-lined cement path after saying good-bye to his family.

“Sure,” Elijah says agreeably. “Only, try not to drive too slowly, okay? I hear sex addicts can’t go very long without getting some.”

Sean laughs, and reaches out as they pass the Welcome Pig to adjust its Puritan hat to an even more rakish angle.

“Which classical station do you want to listen to?” Elijah asks when they are both buckled in and Sean is cautiously backing out his parents’ driveway. “KUSC?”

“Sounds good,” Sean replies, and seconds later, the soul-stirring notes of Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 4 fill the interior of the Lexus. 

“Mm, that’s nice,” Elijah murmurs. He sets his left hand possessively on Sean’s right thigh and snuggles his cheek into Sean’s shirtsleeve. “You know, Sean,” he says after a few minutes, “I hate to say this, because I really do like her, but, well, your mom isn’t a very good cook.”

Sean’s heart swells with joy. Soulmates, he thinks ecstatically, there’s no doubt about it. Elijah and I are soulmates.

“So I’ve been thinking,” Elijah goes on. “You’re a million time better cook than she is, so we should have Thanksgiving at our house next year. We can invite your family and my family and have a joint celebration. Won’t that be fun?”

Life, Sean has discovered, is often like a Henny Youngman joke, with Sean himself as the punch line. This is definitely one of those times. But then again, an awful lot can happen in a year. Just look at all that had happened in the months since he met Elijah, and pretty much every single bit of it good.

So instead of freaking out, Sean simply takes his hand from the steering wheel (an incredibly bold and brave move that the old Sean would never have dared to make) and sets it over Elijah’s.

“We’ll see,” he says tenderly. “We’ll see.”

~end~


End file.
